It's a gift we give to one another on our wedding anniversary. And last week was our 63rd wedding anniversary. We made the usual arrangements to celebrate that date and took ourselves off for a week to explore old familiar places in the great outdoors of the White Mountain National Forest of New Hampshire. It's a middling-long drive, you might say, and as long as we can bypass Montreal we feel we've missed just about the worst of the drive.

Crossing through U.S. Customs at Derby Line-Stanstead wasn't bad this time at all. We lucked in to a decent-minded customs officer who asked the usual tiresome questions, took a quick look at our passports and waved us through. They've run the gamut from just plain rudely ignorant to sweet and pleasant, and this fellow fell right in the middle.

We'd driven the bulk of our journey at that point, at least three-quarters of it. We stopped at the Vermont rest stop where we usually do (can no longer use the Quebec rest stop in the opposite direction going home; typically Quebec is not courteous and thoughtful to its visitors; it closed down the one which doubled as a tourism information booth at the crossing two years ago), and had a picnic brunch with our two little dogs before carrying on. Fortuitously, the rain stopped long enough to allow us the luxury of a walk-about since stopping there also gives them a chance to stretch their legs a bit. They've turned into excellent, undemanding travellers.

It seems to take little time at all before crossing from Vermont into New Hampshire, and once there, to pass through Franconia Notch. We had rain for most of the trip; from leaving home to driving through the Notch, and heavy dark clouds hung low over the mountains, threatening and bleak in appearance.

We arrived at the cottage we reserve in the Waterville Valley a half-hour later, greeting our wonderful hosts who own and operate a facility that allows us to bring along our little companion dogs. They've operated their beautifully situated business for 18 years and we've been taking advantage of their hospitality for 15 years, though it's been at least double and more that time that we've been visiting the White Mountains, originally with our three children while in their teens.

Not much time the rest of the day for anything other than unpacking, settling in, driving over to the terrific Hannaford supermarket to acquire the food we'd be eating for the next week, returning to the cottage, unpacking again, feeding our little dogs, and finally us. We were pretty bushed and for a change thought it a good idea to go to bed earlier than we usually do.

Next morning after breakfast we headed our to the delightful and beautiful Smartsbrook trail that has never disappointed us in its spring wildflower collection. We came across the usual; violets, False Solomon's seal, dogwood, bunchberry, straw lilies and outstanding pink Ladies Slippers. The dogwood had already blossomed and because of the rain the area was soaked. Wind and rain had brought down out of the trees intricate lacy lichens, firmly attached to bits of branches, and they presented as blossoms themselves.

We clambered the trail alongside the brook running down off the mountain, boulder-strewn and boiling with energy and sound. As you ascend, it turns into a wooded chasm, either side lined with striated, coloured granite walls until the trail takes you away from the brook and onto a flatter promontory called the Pine Flats. It in turn meets up with other trails and you descend into a denser forest along the Yellowjacket trail. 

We turned back at that point, to leave the entire circuit that would take us hours, for another day, when we felt a little more enthusiastic about expending more energy than we thought we could muster that first day. It was cool enough for jackets, windy and threatening rain but none resumed for which we were grateful. We seldom see wildlife there, though we do hear Northern thrushes, and see vultures circling above often.